Unchained
by anyadoll
Summary: Three ghosts will come to see Patrick Jane. It's what they have to show him that will change him, forever. [all episodes/spoilers included within]
1. Red Past

**A/N:** So I think this will be a 3-shot, I've always wanted to find a show to write the oft used, slightly clichéd Christmas Carol plot. I will try to be as cliché free as possible, and I'm sure there will be spoilers from Devil's Cherry, considering the plot, and all episodes following. I'm also taking liberties with Lisbon's mom's name since we don't know it. But c'mon, they really need to try this plot! I can see a Christmas plot in the making…lyrics, "Swallowed In the Sea" by Coldplay

**Unchained**

_You put me on a line_

_And hung me out to dry_

_And darling that's when I_

_Decided to go see you_

_You cut me down to size_

_And opened up my eyes_

_Made me realize_

_What I could not see_

He'd promised her he'd never touch the vile tea again. Not after she came to bid him goodnight in the attic, after his first ordeal with the Belladonna, and found him once again passed out on the hard floor. He'd not had a seizure, but his pulse was thready and he'd blacked out.

No ghost had come to him that night, as if to curse him for trying.

She'd scolded him profusely, when he'd woken a half hour later, glaring, straight backed, in a chair across from his cot where she'd managed to hoist him. There was something she hid as her veiled threats seeped through her worried words. It hid behind her now opaque emerald eyes—and it was the night he realized he'd met both his match and his enemy. He could no longer read her. Hot or cold. Six months had barricaded him from her.

And that hurt. Because he knew she'd found a way to lie.

Not that she had. Not that she would.

Not that she wouldn't.

He was careful after that, observed her harder, looked at her longer, before the team would knit their brows in confusion as to why he studied her so intently. He made it his purpose to look lost in thought. He didn't always succeed.

The team assumed something was going on with the pair. Patrick Jane assumed she was somehow misleading him. After his encounter with Lorelei, she'd become less and less open, hiding behind that emerald shield. He would do anything for the information that source could have supplied. And it was the "anything" part that had Teresa Lisbon keeping herself away from him, though she was not exactly succeeding either.

She cared too much. He cared for a different purpose.

Their latest case had been a tipping point.

She knew it would happen, sooner or later. Another Red John murder, an intentional one meant, purposefully, to entice and enrage Jane. Because the woman he'd chosen to kill was the siren herself. It was different; a different kind of care had been taken with the body of Lorelei Martins.

She' been found in a bed, in a lovely, expensive hotel, laid and left with care, blood painted lips and fingernails, but the cuts were well placed, as if he'd taken pity on his charge. Her hair was dyed darker, and her brown eyes were open, staring aimless upwards. Well, they had been brown, Jane remembered. She wore green contacts over top of her natural color in death.

Jane had felt sick for a multitude of reasons, staring at his one night stand in Vegas. It was the cruelest kind of calling card. He was too close to Teresa Lisbon. Too close, he knew, and it would get her killed.

Lisbon had balked at the sight of the horrid doppelganger. The team kept their gazes bouncing back from each other to the body to their boss, knowing exactly what came next. Lisbon, on a platter.

She feigned calm and resistance, and bravado that she would neither go into protective custody, nor flee her home.

Regardless, she slept with a loaded gun under her pillow. If she slept at all.

Jane pulled, quite sufficiently, away from her after that. There were no pizzas, no jokes; she dared not enter the attic. He used Cho as a sounding board, rode with Rigsby to the scenes [given how sleep deprived he'd been with Ben lately, he really had no clue as to what was happening around him], and used poor Grace as his personal messenger for the communication of his 'whodunit' moments.

They'd become strangers. And that's what he knew needed to happen. She couldn't be a target if they weren't even friends.

He'd promised her he wouldn't use the tea. But tonight…he needed it like the hallucinogenic drug it was.

This time, he'd gone to the Malibu house. He brewed it carefully, measured, and drank.

This time he got his wish. As before him stood Angela, in all her beaming glory.

XOX

"Patrick, why are you so insistent on speaking to me? With such extremes as these? Your life is at stake here, my love."

Her scolding was a lighter version of Lisbon's. He couldn't help but smile, embracing his beautiful wife.

"I had too Ange. I got too see Charlotte, it's only fair," he whispered. She did not smile. Her lips remained downturned.

"I wish you would move past this Patrick!"

He frowned now. "Why? I promised you till death, Angela, and I'm not about to undo that promise!"

"I know. You were the most wonderful husband a girl could dream of. But we _have_ parted in death, Patrick, and you can no longer have me."

"Why can't I just….be with you?"

She laughed, a sound of bells and chimes that reminded him of the past. He closed his eyes, remembering.

"Patrick, there are things you need to see, things you need to do before you die. Important, life-saving, life-altering things. You won't understand unless I show you, will you?" she said, sadly.

"How important could I truly be, Angela?" he asked, stroking her long, blonde locks affectionately.

When he blinked, he realized the Malibu house was gone. In fact, he couldn't even recognize where he was until he saw the coffin. For a moment, he thought he was at their funeral again, but the church was unfamiliar.

He held Angela's hand, as she guided him up the aisle, stopping a few rows behind and sitting. "Where are we, Ange?"

"Not where, dear, but when." She replied, hushing him as the priest stood before the closed coffin.

He took in the surroundings, trying to place the 'when' his wife spoke of. It had to have been decades prior, looking at the clothes the grieving people wore. He'd missed what the priest was saying, but watched as a row of four stood, suddenly. Four dark-haired children. Three boys, ushered by a girl in a black dress too large for her thin form. The girl guided them forward like baby chicks, before turning back to pull on the slumped, catatonic form of a man in the row that he had not seen initially. The man refused to budge. The girl angrily turned, and he caught the eye roll and angry tears that fell from her wide green eyes.

"Teresa?" Patrick whispered in wonder.

"This is her mother's funeral."

"Why would you show me this?" he demanded faintly.

Angela stroked his hand. "To show you that you're not the only one who has experienced loss, been crippled by it. You know she blames herself every day. Her mother had only gone out to get a new pair of shoes for her. She'd complained that her Mary-Jane's were too childish for her new school year. Her mother wanted to surprise her. I believe you know the rest."

"Drunk driver," he nodded. He blinked again and the scene faded once more. This time they were in a house. This time he knew who's house it had too be.

"This is a little later, a little longer down the road," Angela narrated.

The three dark haired boys were older, more rough and tumble looking. When Teresa walked past him, two laundry baskets balanced precariously, yelling that dinner was on the table, he realized she was truly a saint. She returned, picking up scattered toys and back packs. The boys charged into the kitchen, piling their plates as young boys do. Just as the one, Tommy, he realized with a smile, was about to shovel a heap of mac and cheese into his mouth, Lisbon shot him a glare. He dropped the spoon and folded his hands together with a clap.

"We thank God for the meal before us, for our health and for each other," the young Teresa recited, eyes open, staring straightforward as the boy's heads were bowed. Her voice was calm and mothering, her eyes were bitter and full of contempt and a lonely anger. "Amen."

He watched as she ate a bite, and then another before gently setting the fork on her plate. The boys regaled her with stories from school and recess and which teachers were killing them with homework. Her eyes had gone cold again, iced over like a pond on a cold winter night.

Jane turned, realizing she was staring at her father, a bottle of whiskey to his lips before he dropped the bottle on the floor. It clattered, spilling. Jane cringed, as did Lisbon. As if she knew what would come next.

"Boys, take your plates upstairs. You can eat in your rooms tonight."

Her brothers looked at her like she'd grown another head. "You never let us eat upstairs!" James said, a grin on his face.

She did not look at him or respond. Her father was swearing, the sounds becoming louder. "Go now, stay upstairs!" she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. They grabbed their plates and sodas and dashed up the stairs without a word.

"Goddammit! What the hell! Get me another bottle Mary!" Her father called. Teresa did not move. "Mary, I said get me another whiskey, now!"

She remained seated. He stood from his seat, wobbling as he made his way into the kitchen, holding onto the walls for support.

Their equal glares met. "My name is Teresa," she bit out, pushing her chair back. "I am not mom!" she screamed. "Get your own damn drink!"

"You're sure mouthy like her!" he said, stumbling. She began clearing the dishes, but even in his stupor he was quicker and grabbed her arm, bruising it roughly, causing her to drop the bowl. The glass shattered into a million little pieces. He let her go, and she pitched forward, clutching for anything solid but was met with the glass shards on the floor.

He shook his head, waving his grimacing daughter off like a fly.

Teresa turned her palms over, staring blankly at the red-coated glass that punctured her hands and arms. She pulled a large piece out, jagged and cruel. She held it temptingly over her left wrist.

"Reese?" came Tommy's small, scared voice from the middle of the stairs. His eyes were confused and lost and he held his empty plate in his small hands. She dropped the glass shard and stood, carefully.

"I fell. It's nothing. Don't come down, I broke the bowl. Leave your plate there and I'll get it. Time for bed, okay?"

"Angela. Why are you doing this to me? I don't want to see this."

"You may not want to but you have too, love."

"I know she's suffered. I get it," he said, voice becoming hard as he watched the teenager wash the glass and blood away.

"No you don't. You don't understand the extent of her pain; you only see yours, what you lost. And that does not make you a whole person Patrick. It does not make you a good one either."

He sighed. "What's next then?"

She grinned. "This one is lighter, I promise."

He opened his eyes to see a pretty twenty-something flashing an ID to the security guard for the first time, watching the gate open for the first time. "Her first day at the CBI?"

"Yes. This part you know I'm sure. She was quick, rising through the ranks with ease, even as her experience was limited and she was a woman and they didn't take kindly to that idea."

He remembered, fondly, the large man he could no longer remember the name of punching him in the nose.

"What's important about this?" he asked carefully.

"This is important because it proves her strength. Her ability to move on. Something you haven't learned yet, my dear husband."

He frowned. "Funny, Angela."

"It was not meant to be funny, my love. It's supposed to mean something. And it makes me sad that you can't see that something yet. But I assure you…you will."

The CBI faded from view, as did visions of Lisbon. They were replaced by the Malibu House once more.

"Now, I have to go, Patrick. But don't worry, please. Someone else is here to see you," she whispered.

"No, stay, please!"

She shook her head, gently kissed him. "I love you, you know that."

He swallowed hard, as she faded.

"Bye Ange."

He blinked, seeing Charlotte once again, all attitude and like mannerisms.

She had a sly grin perched on her pretty face.

"What is it that you want to show me, Charlotte?"

"Everything, father."

_And I could write a book_

_The one they'll say that shook_

_The world, and then it took_

_It took it back from me_

_And I could write it down_

_Or spread it all around_

_Get lost and then get found_

_And you'll come back to me_

_Not swallowed in the sea…_


	2. Red Present

**A/N **lyrics, "Swallowed In the Sea" by Coldplay. I highly recommend listening to "Fix You" as well…and "Wonderwall," but not by Oasis, try the version by Jake Coco, on youtube. He has some gorgeous collaborations…they were actually part of the inspiration for this fic. Enjoy part 2! My only difficulty is who to make the ghost of the future-should it be Patrick, Red John, or Teresa, or someone else? Let me know, I'll take it as a poll in the reviews if you will! Also, I rarely, if ever, use lyrics in their actual [verse] order.

**Unchained**

_You cut me down a tree_

_And brought it back to me_

_And that's what made me see_

_Where I was going wrong_

_You put me on a shelf_

_And kept me for yourself_

_I can only blame myself_

_You can only blame me_

"Shall we begin?" his daughter queried with an impish grin, holding out her hand to her father.

"What tragedy will I be seeing now?" Patrick asked sarcastically.

"You tell me dad," she said suspiciously. He sighed warily.

When he blinked, she'd transported him to a comfortingly, familiar scene; he was within the confines of Lisbon's office. She looked as she did presently, wavy dark hair and all, poring over case files.

"So you're my ghost of Patrick's Present, then?" He mumbled wryly.

"If you want to call me that, so be it dad. All I know is this is what you need to see," Charlotte said with an eyebrow raised, waving him into the space with a petulant shrug.

He sat on the couch he'd bought for Teresa awhile back, staring unabashedly at her lovely face bowed over the constant stream of paperwork, most of it caused by his antics.

"She's become as bad as you, you know. She doesn't sleep, she practically lives here. She's slept on this couch about as much as you sleep in a disgusting, dusty attic," she paused. "You really need new digs, dad, seriously, it's just creepy."

He laughed, but shook his head. "So why am I in the present then, wouldn't the past or future be more…I don't know, important? What is there to learn watching Lisbon do paperwork?"

"You're still not getting the point of your trip, are you dad? You think pushing her out of your life is a good thing, that it will keep her safe? It's not going to, dad. You're hurting her, so much. Have you even stopped to ask how she is, if she's okay? She's become as obsessed as you."

Patrick whipped his head around at that. "How so?"

Charlotte nodded her head towards the file Lisbon held. "Take a look. It's not paperwork that's keeping her up at night."

He stood, walking around behind her desk and leaning over her shoulder. She held a picture of Lorelei's body. He knew she was drawing dark comparisons, uncanny in their image but utterly different in soul. The dead woman would never compare to her. He realized, also, that she kept glancing at a photo of her brothers, and then down to the document she was currently penning.

He couldn't tell what it was, until she moved to stand, to swipe her eyes. The document had water droplets that smeared the black lettering, but he nearly knocked over her pencil holder when he realized what it was.

"It's a Will. Why…" he trailed.

"She's been thinking 'bout it for awhile now. Lorelei's death pushed her to do it, she knows she running out of time. She's written letters to the team, to her brothers and Hightower and Minelli too. The only one she hasn't written is to you, dad. She doesn't know how to say what she wants to say without hurting you."

He felt the water building behind his eyes. His unshakeable Teresa was utterly, completely afraid.

"She's literally looking down at her own death dad. She's scared and you've left her high and dry."

"I'm protecting her!"

"No you're not—you're being mean, there's a difference!"

"Charlotte, you may be my daughter, and you may be dead but you will not be smart with me!"

Charlotte stomped her foot angrily. The scene vanished. They stood in Lisbon's house. Another familiar, comforting scene. He'd stayed here, slept on her couch on more than one occasion since his grand return.

He felt jarred. His daughter was not nearly as soothing and gentle as his wife, something she had picked up from him, no doubt. Lisbon was unlocking her front door, he realized.

She tossed her keys to the side table, dropped her bag of files on the ground without preamble. He followed her to the kitchen, where she stood in the dark, staring into the fridge as if it held the answers she was searching for.

Nothing edible resided in her fridge. He winced. All he could see was half a gallon of old milk, three eggs bobbing in the corner, butter, mustard, and an apple that had seen better days. She could take of others, but she lacked in taking care of herself. He felt a pang in his heart. He would buy groceries for her tomorrow, no matter what she said or how she lamented. Someone needed to take of her, for once, he thought sadly. No one ever had. She'd been an adult since she was nine. That was a lot to put on a child. Even more on a grown up. She may have been better for it, but it did not excuse her vanished childhood. He knew well what that did to one's soul.

He wanted, desperately, to touch her, reach out and hug her and let her know he did care.

"She can't feel you," Charlotte said quietly, reading his mind. Of course, he remembered, she _was _his mind, subconscious or not. "She doesn't know you're here."

He cringed, again, as she pulled out the bottle of whiskey. It had never been opened, that was clear. She sat at her small table, the bottle taunting her. Her fists flexed.

"Did I do this? Am I that like her father? So willing to leave her behind, pretend she doesn't matter…" he asked no one. Charlotte did not know the answer to that. Only Teresa did.

He sat down across from her in the darkness.

She sniffed, biting back more tears. "God, why does he do this to me?" she whispered brokenly. "Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid," she yelled, punching the table. The bottle skittered along the surface, leaving a trail of condensation in its wake. "I hate him…" she cried, head falling to her hands as she sobbed.

After all, she had to keep up pretenses at work.

He wondered how much she cursed him when she was here, alone. How much she cried over him.

Patrick leaned forward. "I'm so, so sorry, dear Teresa. I'm a fool. I'm selfish, I always have been. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

He gently slid his hand across the table, placing it over one of her fists. Her hand relaxed at his touch. She jumped, taken aback by his unseen force. She was staring at her hand, curious.

"You said she couldn't feel me Charlotte."

Charlotte shrugged. "Maybe she's more perceptive than you give her credit for father dear?"

The curiosity did not leave Lisbon's face. She seemed startled, maybe a little dazed at his contact. He had scared her out of the kitchen, that much was sure. He knew she believed in God, angels, but ghosts…not so much.

Maybe he was in a sort of spirit-like state, allowing him to be and not be.

The invisible pair followed her up to her room. She'd left the whiskey to condensate on her table. Patrick was frustrated with the fact that she had not eaten since her meager lunch.

"Um, Charlotte, are you sure I should see this?" he asked with an eyebrow raised.

She merely shrugged. A smirk played across her lips.

Teresa appeared from her adjoined washroom, hair up, make up gone, looking ever the child, excepting for the blue, bruise like shadows under her tired green eyes. She tugged her shirt over her head, searching for her pajamas—the adorable, leg baring, old jersey, he was sure. Or hoped?

He drew in a breath as she dropped her work into a laundry bin. He wasn't staring at her like a longing man, but someone horrified of what stood before them. He could count her ribs. He could see indents that were never there before, collar bone jutting, concave stomach. She'd always been thin, but a healthy, I work out and take care of myself, thin. This was frightening.

This had been happening since he left.

"Bingo, dad."

"What?" he asked, half listening. He had not realized he'd voiced his comment aloud.

"This is what your lame disappearing act/fake breakdown has done to your _friend_. She was distant. She spent most of her days in an empty church. Praying for _yo_u."

He glanced at his daughter. She wouldn't lie to him. A lie would have been a comfort. This was meant to be a cruel wake up call.

"What am I supposed to do, Charlotte? How do I help her?"

"Daddy, she doesn't want your help. You're still missing the point."

Charlotte shook her head disapprovingly.

Teresa had crawled under her covers. He noticed the gun then. She gripped it like a child would treasure a teddy bear. Her other hand toyed with the gold cross she wore so resolutely. He couldn't help twisting the gold band on his left hand.

"What is she whispering?" he asked carefully.

He moved to sit next to her bedside. Her eyes were wide open and unblinking. As if she would vanish.

"…for Jane, please. I know he's selfish and desperate for revenge, but please look out for him. I have a bad feeling, I guess, that I won't make it out of this. I've always known, I think, some way or other. If I don't make it, let him be okay, let him move on. Don't let him dwell on me. He shouldn't, I know he won't. Just let him be happy. Give him some kind of justice, for me, for his family? If I'm gone tonight, let him be safe. I know, deep down, there's love in his heart…even if it's not for me, let it be for someone…" she trailed off, never letting the cross go.

"She says that every night. You know?"

"Yea…I can see that."

Charlotte wanted to smack her father. "She loves you dad. When will you admit that you know she loves you? And don't try to deny it dad, that you love her too. You are the most exhausting couple to watch, ever, I swear!"

He didn't move. He wanted to stay in the moment forever.

"I can't Charlotte. Not until…"

"Blah, blah, Red John, I know dad! We get it, kill our killer, get your revenge, and then what? Marry her in a jail cell? Really? That's gonna be a pretty awkward honeymoon. I can see the headlines, The Cop and The Crook."

"If I get involved with her, she's as good as dead."

"She's been a target since she took the case dad. Since she realized she cared about you. Since you fake shot her and told her you loved her! Teresa will always be a target, if not from Red John, then another crazed criminal, daddy. Let it go. You and Cho and Grace and Rigsby…they're all in the same deep water as her."

Charlotte was becoming as agitated and exasperated as Lisbon was so often with him. He chuckled at that.

"Now what?" he asked his daughter.

"Now…we stay for a little while longer. As far as the present, this is it."

"Do you watch over her Charlotte? The way you talk…"

Her smile was small. "When I'm not looking out for you…yes. I like her. She's…different, and good. She's not untainted daddy, she's had her fair share of darkness. She knows and understands it…you need to talk to her…"

"I do…don't I?"

He looked down at the woman that loved him more than he knew. She'd drifted off to sleep. Something she probably had not done in days. Or months, really. Because of him and his arrogance and greed and selfish desires.

He moved a strand of hair from where it had drifted to catch on her lips. His thumb moved absently over her pink lips.

Her eyes danced under veiled lashes. Her forehead knit and bunched into little worried lines. "Jane…?" she whispered sleepily.

He didn't pull his hand away. Charlotte watched carefully. She kept vigil over the woman more than she would let her father know.

The truth was, she needed more guardian angels than her father did.

"Daddy, we have to go," she whispered.

He nodded. The scene with the beautiful, slumbering form of Teresa Lisbon faded away like a twisted, melancholy dream. He was returned to his red-smiley-faced room. He blinked, but no one greeted him. Not his beautiful daughter, not his divine wife.

Nobody.

He was all by himself within the confines of his darkness.

Alone.

_And I could write it down_

_Or spread it all around_

_Get lost, and then get found_

_Or swallowed in the sea…_


	3. Red Future

**A/N: **lyrics, "Swallowed In the Sea" by Coldplay. So, I'm noticing this season that the word 'cherry' is trending. I don't know about you folks, but I'm waiting for the next title, and I'm not being crass here, for a Mentalist episode to be called 'cherry popped' with the way they're going—they have three titles in the span of 12 eps with cherry in the title. Let's…expand, or at least look up some lipstick colors. Also, I know in the traditional sense, he is supposed to be shown his future death. But this is my story. So I do what I want. But onto the story: the ghost of Patrick's future is…. revealed at the end, psych!

**Unchained**

_Oh what good is it to live_

_With nothing left to give_

_Forget, but not forgive_

_Not loving all you see_

"I wear the chain I forged in life! I made it link by link, and yard by yard! I gartered it on of my own free will, and by my own free will I wore it."

Patrick Jane hated the silly line from Jacob Marley. Hated the movie. Hated the book. His wife had loved it all, all the pomp and fluff of the holidays so ardently that she'd watch the movie in July and he'd be sick of it by November. Their daughter had been enamored with the holidays as well, the fantastical idea that a fat man could squeeze himself down a chimney with a bag of presents just for her…of course a child would love the holidays.

And one thing Patrick had learned long ago was that a parent was not allowed to despise the holidays. One became the model for them.

The team quite loved the holidays as well. Grace was the first to decorate her desk in brightly colored paper and the flair his wife had adored. Rigsby, being a new father, would soon learn the perils of the holidays because of his young son. And Cho…well, Cho would always be Cho, showing no emotion to the contrary—but Summer had taken some of his rough resolve with her, and they all knew it.

It was only Teresa Lisbon that detested the holidays as he. She was truly nothing like his wife. She was stronger, harder, worldly, and older in the spiritual sense—she had not been a child for a long time. She despised the pageantry, the false happy glow; presents did not appear as small children believed them to—they were costly, demanded to be wrapped prettily, and as acting mother, she went without. She'd foregone going home anymore. The holidays were for families, and her brothers had their own. She'd take her leave time proffered by the CBI and relax, take a bath with a bottle of wine by her side.

He never realized how thankless he'd been. As bad as her brothers, in all honesty—taking her kindness and ardor for granted. Her friendship had always been his means to an end. She was there for him to use as he saw fit, from day one when he coaxed the fat man to punch him in the nose with his unkind words. Everything had been purposeful, calculated.

If he were truly thankful for her, he would be next to her now, comforting her as she slept instead of here, drunk off of a dangerous tea, being led through the past and the present and whatever else came next by the dead.

She was a childless mother hen. He was all she had. And he knew she didn't deserve to be treated so poorly as he did.

If he were truly thankful, he would not have taken back his untimely confession so many months back.

Ill-fated men as he were not given this sort of luxury though.

Patrick opened his eyes, not realizing they'd remained closed when Charlotte returned him here.

He was met with someone he did not know.

And it frightened him.

XOX

"So, I'm guessing you're going to show me my future?" Patrick said dryly to the hooded figure. There was no answer. No movement. No nod or shake of the figure's head. But he could feel a sickening smile creeping across the figure's face, deep in his bones. "Okay then, glad we got that out of the way."

The figure simply turned away, and with a step, Patrick's bare feet touched wet grass. His Malibu house had vanished. It was raining where he stood, wherever 'where' was.

He looked around, trying to orient himself. He felt dizzy and confused.

He did not recognize this place though. He'd traveled often in his youth, with the carnival, with Angela when they ran, for his profession…

But wherever here was, he had not been.

His gaze fell on a little church a few yards ahead of them. Somehow, he knew he needed to go there. The figure remained, not following the man.

He didn't know what to expect, pushing through the modest, ornately carved doors.

He didn't expect a baptism. He didn't expect Teresa Lisbon to be holding a baby. He didn't expect to see her standing by herself. She looked older, her hair short and almost unkempt, as if she no longer care. The priest appeared, a strange sort of sad grin on his face, almost…well, he couldn't quite say.

"It's just going to be us," she said quietly. "The…they couldn't bear it. Not after…"

The priest put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Okay then. Let's begin," The priest began, reciting the baptismal script. Teresa was crying by the end. The tears were not of joy though. The holy water was poured over the baby's head, eliciting irritation from the child at the foreign, cold, wetness. "…may the angels watch over you, Claire Marie Rigsby."

No. No. What was Teresa doing with Wayne's daughter…? He turned then, distracted by a muffled sniff; an older boy sat in the second pew, not watching the ceremony. He had to be no more than five.

"C'mon Ben, it's time to go. We need to stop…somewhere. Thank you father," Lisbon whispered, taking Ben's hand and leading them out of the church.

Into a graveyard.

They didn't walk far, before approaching the headstone they were looking for. Ben sat between the headstone and the one next to it, reaching his little arms out to touch both. Then, Jane realized, they were looking at two.

_Wayne Rigsby. Beloved father, true fighter, wonderful friend. _

The grave next to his read a familiar name.

One that startled Jane.

_Grace Rigsby. _

"What happened here?" Patrick demanded, beckoning the hooded figure.

Patrick felt himself hurtling. Being sucked…backwards? Could one go back in the future that had yet to happen in the first place?

He opened his eyes to see he was in a warehouse of some sort. He heard yelling, a lot of yelling, coming from a separate room.

He wasn't going to like what he as about to witness, he already knew that much. But he would have to anyway.

Red John.

Masked, but he knew, without a doubt. The blood red smiley faces covering every inch of the space told him as much. The mad man had a gun to Grace's head. She was leaning over Wayne, openly sobbing, not for herself, not for her own life. Gold rings circled both of their left hands.

"What now, Mr. Jane?" came the eerie, sickly soft voice of the killer. "Who would you choose? Your friend, here, whose husband is already bleeding out on a dirty floor, with, what was it? Oh yes, two children. Or the woman you just can't admit you love?"

It was then he noticed Lisbon. Tied to chair with cuts on her arms and neck and places he was sure he could not see from his perch. She was unconscious.

"Tick, tock. Mr. Jane. You're running out of time. Choose, or I choose for you. And you won't like my choice…"

He had no weapon of his own. He never had. Teresa was the one who always saved him.

"I can't, take me! Leave them alone. They did nothing but try to help me!"

"No you see; that is just not how it works. A man like you, so obsessed with revenge, will never be free. You mentioned before that you had no friends, no family. You couldn't. Your obsession, your vengeance, Mr. Jane, spreads like fire. You burn what you touch! These people are your means to an end, so choose which one to end, Mr. Jane!"

Jane watched his future self shake his head.

"Fine," the shot echoed off the empty warehouse walls. "Remember, Patrick, this was your choice. This is on you…"

Like his future self, his present self could not look at what he'd done.

The scene faded around him. So his revenge would not get him killed. It would not even get Lisbon killed.

Just his friends.

His selfish, obsessive, choices would lead to two parentless, broken children taken in by his broken best friend—and, he was sure, Teresa Lisbon never forgave him for that.

He turned to the hooded man.

"How do I stop this? How do I erase this future!" he yelled. He could never forgive himself for the deaths of Wayne and Grace, for leaving Ben and the future Claire without their loving parents. He could never live without Teresa; she was what kept him from the edge, she was his angel. And clearly, she would make it her mission to live without him.

That thought made him sick.

The figure tilted its hooded head, as if to consider his question. Then, again, it turned and walked forward.

The figure stopped in front of a small house outside a suburban neighborhood in California, and Patrick eyed the cloaked person with distrust. He walked to the door, hesitating.

There were no lights on in the house.

He blinked, and found he was inside. Being caught in some strange ghostly time loop clearly had its advantages.

"Where are we now? Another death scene? Another bad fate for someone I know or love at my hands?" Patrick questioned the hooded figure self-deprecatingly. He knew he'd never sleep again, not that he did anyway. But that scene would haunt his fragile mind forever.

The cloaked figure was not looking at him, nor paying attention.

"Answer me!" he screamed, loudly enough that it could have truly woken the dead. It did not faze the figure though.

Patrick followed the gaze of the figure. It looked like a framed piece of paper, hanging, alone, on the wall above an unused brick fireplace. He gently took the picture frame down, desperate to read the contents of the letter.

He felt gutted when he realized what it was.

The letter. The letter Lisbon had been writing, for him, in her office…earlier? Yesterday? Last night? His sense of time was gone.

He could see the watermarks of her tears and the smudged lettering.

But he could read it.

_Patrick-_

_I knew you'd be the hardest to write too. I have no requests for you, like the others. I will never change you. It would be foolish to try and you would never listen to me anyway. So instead I give you a confession, or maybe it's a wish. _

_I think back, in the beginning when we first met, I saw you as a sad, lonely man desperate for answers. When you joined the team, I saw you as a helpful sort of sidekick, but lacking in any true emotion other than pain and sorrow. And guilt. When we had the first true Red John break, I saw hope. You had the ability to hope, and with hope comes belief. Then, when you shot the man ready to shoot me, your only living link to a serial killer, I knew you were capable of caring for someone other than your own selfish obsession. When you killed Timothy Carter and found yourself in jail, I saw relief, which scared me. How could you be relieved? You knew it wasn't him, as you expressed to me when I finally got you out. What was it that you were so relieved about? That your mission was not over, or that you had not become a revenge killer? _

_When you disappeared to Vegas, I thought so little of you. You became the sad, lonely, desperate man from when we first met. And in my eyes, you also became unreachable, untouchable. _

_That was the moment I knew I'd never have you. _

_When you returned, I thought you were just plain stupid, taunting a serial killer with false promises and using me as bait. _

_When you said you loved me, well, I still don't know what to think. _

_Your charm will not save you Patrick. Be sure of that. _

_My confession is this: that somewhere along the way, we became tenuous coworkers, we became mutually respected friends, we became the sort that would move heaven and earth for the other and sacrifice it all, we became the kind of friends that would die for each other. _

_My wish though? My wish is that we would have lived for each other. We would have loved each other, truly. _

_Always, Teresa_

Something else, another paper folded in half, caught his eye. It was his face, on a memorial booklet cover. He did not look much older than he did now.

_In Memory Of: Patrick Jane_

The letter was heavy. As was the book of his death. It weighed in his hands and in his heart. It still gave him no way to change the future before him.

"How…what does this change?" he asked the figure sadly.

This time, he saw the smirk on the figures face, but did not feel it as eerily as before.

He watched the figure push its dark, silvery hood back, finally revealing whom the ghost of his futures and deaths was.

"Teresa?" he whispered, almost horrified.

She nodded, smiled prettily, but it was…different. Her eyes were a brighter shade of green, not a wrinkle or a scar or birthmark marred her face, her hair longer than he'd yet to see on his friend. It was her, but it wasn't. "Of a sort."

He gaped, confused and terrified at the revelation.

"I'm your future, Patrick. If you want to change what's been laid out before you, you have to first let go of your past. You are so afraid of losing me that you already _are_ losing. And you will lose it all. You've seen what will happen, these are what your choices lead too."

"I don't want any of it to happen, Teresa. I can't lose them. I can't lose my friends. I can't…I can't lose you."

She nodded again. "I know. The question you have to ask yourself, Patrick, is why?"

He stared at his future ghost, at Teresa, for a long while. He blinked, and found the letter, the little house, had all melted away. He stood in front of her home.

"When you can answer your own question, you change everything."

"And I suppose it goes against your moral ghost code to give me hint. You are just like her. Irritating," he mumbled.

"Well trust me, you haven't' been a picnic to lead through your future either."

He had to laugh at that. "Touché, future ghost Lisbon," he said with a smile. "Why am I at your house at two in the morning?"

She shook her head. "Because right here, Patrick, is where you can change it."

He looked up, where he knew her room was. "But how?" he asked, and then turned back.

But she was gone.

So he knocked on the door.

XOX

"What do you want from me?" -Ebenezer.

"Much." -Jacob Marley

XOX

He felt a little awful, waking her so early when she desperately needed her rest, accounting for the deep blue circles under her lovely eyes.

It took her ten minutes to realize someone was knocking.

"Jane? What the hell, it's two in the morning!" she bit out crankily, leaning on her doorjamb.

He shrugged. He really didn't know how to tell her about the ghosts or the fact that he broke his promise and drank the Belladonna again. So he went with charming observation.

"You weren't sleeping anyways. You're worried he'll come for you, Teresa. He won't."

She stared dumbly for a moment, trying to make sense of his words. "Oh, God, Jane, don't tell me you—"

"No, no! Nothing of the sort. I promise," he said quickly. "I just wanted to talk, if that's okay."

She sighed, rolled her eyes. "I didn't think we were talking?"

He looked down, ashamed. "I thought I was…helping. Turns out I'm wrong on more than one front."

"You're just realizing this now?" she said dryly, letting him in but keeping her distance.

"Well after what I've seen…" he trailed off quietly, speaking to the ether, not meaning for her to hear as he closed the door behind them.

He followed her into her kitchen. She was already brewing tea. He felt sick looking at the concoction but dared not say a word.

"So, Jane, what brings you to my door at this ungodly hour?"

He would have laughed at his words, but the laugh stuck in his throat. "The future."

She stopped her movements, but shook it off. He couldn't see her face fall, but he felt it.

"What do you mean? Or will you be speaking in riddles all night?"

Teresa pulled two teacups down, poured the tea. She pushed the cup towards him, waiting for his response as she took a seat at her table. He sipped the hot beverage, letting it scald his tongue and burn his throat, before setting it on her table.

"I…I had a dream and it got me thinking…"

She raised an eyebrow. "That you might be in desperate need of more sleep Jane?"

He raised his eyebrow at her in turn, but there was no amusement behind it or in his eyes.

She tilted her head. He thought of the ghost-her. "You're not kidding, you're dead serious," Teresa observed.

He flinched at 'dead.'

"Are you okay? I mean, you've never been one to rave about dream interpretations, last I recalled you lumped them with psychic visions."

"Trust me, Teresa, I didn't exactly see this coming."

"What did your dream show you? It had to have been something big to upset you like this Jane?"

"According to my present, my past, and my…future…I'm making a lot of mistakes, especially lately." He cleared his throat. "If I tell you, if I make you believe me…will you just listen to me."

"Sure Jane, I'm awake anyway. So hit me."

"Angela, she showed me the past, and Charlotte the present, but it wasn't mine, Teresa…she showed me yours."

"Okay-y…and why would your dead wife and daughter show you my past Jane?

"Well, she claims she was trying to prove a point. I think she was just trying to make me mad at her," he lamented, more to himself.

"Right. So what did you see Jane?"

"Your mom's funeral. Your brothers' and you, your father. Your dress was too big for you and your father wouldn't stand up, go to the coffin with you."

She looked away. "Patrick, don't cold read me, that's not fair," she whispered bitterly.

He didn't reply and he didn't look away. "I'm not sure how old you were, maybe fifteen…your dad called you Mary, grabbed your arm and let go and you fell on broken glass, a bowl you dropped from dinner. You took a piece of glass and thought about cutting your wrist, for just a moment, until Tommy saw you…I don't think you ever thought about…taking your life...again, after that…"

She was furious now. She'd let him in and he was insulting her intelligence with his mind games. "Get out," she demanded.

He ignored her. "You've been writing a Will, writing letters to your brothers and the team…and me, but you don't know what to write to me. Every night you come home and stare at a bottle of whiskey. You sleep with a gun in your hand, Teresa, and you…you pray for _me_ every night."

Teresa stood then, her chair falling out behind her, clattering to the ground as she loomed over him, breathing heavily with fury. "Get out of my house, Jane!" she screamed. "Get, OUT!"

He stood carefully, but made no move to leave. "No, Teresa, you said you'd hear me out," he said plaintively.

"Yes, I said I'd hear you out, but I never said if you got my information from my brothers and by snooping through my stuff and by spying on me!" she cried, fists clenched tightly at her sides.

"I don't know your brothers well enough to ask them that, and you know me better Teresa, yes, sometimes I go through your papers, but I would never spy on you!"

"You had to find that out from somewhere, that information doesn't just _come_ to you Jane!" she pushed away stubborn tears that coursed down her bright red cheeks. "Please, just leave me alone, you're been so very good at that lately," she said, her voice watery and body on the verge of collapse. She reminded him, again, of a child; swallowed up in an oversize jersey.

He felt his heart sink. He had been quite good at avoiding his lovely friend lately. Her ghost was right, he was already losing…losing her. "Teresa, I didn't mean to offend you or frighten you…I thought you deserved to know what I was shown."

"Stop it, please, I don't want to hear anymore of this! She pounded her fist on the table, desperate to prove her point.

"Too bad, I'm not finished. We need to talk about the future," Patrick said forcefully, standing to loom over her petite form, gripping her upper arms painfully. "My…my choices are creating a horrible future, for all of us. You showed me that, or, some version of you showed me that I don't really know how it works, all I know is that it's a bad future that awaits us and it's all my fault."

"Please, let me go, Jane, now!"

"We never get him…you showed me that we never get him. He made me choose, between you or Grace, and I couldn't because I was going to ruin lives, I mean, they were married, they had two kids, but you…I couldn't choose you either, I couldn't let him take you because I…"

His eyes were wide and unseeing, and he was wondering at his own words. His grip tightened, for someone who probably had not seen a gym since his wife passed, he was far stronger than she'd assumed.

She didn't want to hurt him, but he was hurting her. "Jane, Jane please, let me go!" she winced, trying to get through, shake him out of whatever was happening. "Patrick you're hurting me!"

That startled him. He saw the pain in her eyes, dropped his hold and stepped back away. She crossed her arms over chest, rubbing at the bruises.

He took a step closer, and she flinched away reflexively. "I'm, truly sorry Teresa. I didn't mean too, I'm sorry…"

She couldn't look at him and he couldn't blame her. He'd never hurt her physically before.

"What did you mean, you couldn't choose?" she whispered roughly.

He glanced at her small frame, leaning against the sink. "I was shown the future. By you."

"I've been here all night, I couldn't have," she shot back.

"Obviously. Just because it was you doesn't mean it was you."

"Well that clears it up." She shook her head. She'd roll her eyes, but she actually believed him, not that she was about to admit that.

"Look, Teresa. I'm merely telling you what happened to me tonight. The ghost of the future, you, showed me what my obsession will do to us. Red John, he'll kill Rigsby and then he kills Grace. He leaves you alive, and scarred, and you leave me, because you'd never, ever forgive me for their deaths. I don't know the events leading up to this, or the events that follow. All I know is, they have a beautiful little girl in the future, and they die, and Ben and Claire become yours. They must have had Wills of their own. The point is…I get it. If anything I understand what future ghost you tried to get me to see. Otherwise she wouldn't have brought me here. I will stop, Teresa, I will stop this obsession. When we get him, ever…he's yours."

She was looking at him oddly, fascinated, but also somewhat awestruck.

"Please say something…I feel like I've gone mad as it is."

She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling nauseous.

"Teresa, are you okay? You're pale."

"No, no. No, I do not believe in this stuff," she said through her fingers which muffled the sound. She turned, flipped the faucet on and threw water on her face. She heaved a large sigh, breathing in large gulps of air. "What else."

"I…well, there was a little house," he tried to approach her carefully, not wanting to scare her. "I didn't, I don't recognize it, it's a part of California I have never been too. But the ghost you showed me the letter that you wrote to me, the letter I saw you writing last night. Or earlier, can't be sure of the time anymore. Trips to the past and the future seem to do that," he joked, shrugging. She seemed to tense when he mentioned the letter, her grip tightened on the sink.

"I, um, I liked the letter that you wrote. Though to be fair, I do die, before you. Let's be clear there; I got to see a memorial book with my face on it. Let me tell you, that's a little creepy…and I'm guessing it's not far from now."

"Where's your proof Jane? You love lying, you love making up stories and fabricating massive, devastating, ploys, so why should I believe you now?"

He smiled softly. "My wish is that we would have lived for each other. We would have loved each other, truly._"_

She whipped around at that.

"It's the last line of your unwritten letter; you've already written it in your mind though, and despite what you think, I cannot read your mind Teresa."

"How?" she felt faint. How could he know what she was _going_ to write?

He shrugged, mulling over the future ghost's words, clicking into place. "Why can't I lose you…?" he asked almost inaudibly.

"I don't know, you tell me, cuz I'd love something to make sense," another sigh. "You asked me once if I feared for your sanity, well, I lied, I do, everyday."

"When I can answer my own question, I'll change it, I'll change our future…" he ignored her again. "This is where it changes. This moment in time."

He looked at her. Really looked at his friend and partner. She loved him, he knew it like his own name. He didn't know how far that love went, how deep.

"Teresa, do you love me?" he asked.

Her cheeks flushed, pink and lovely. She was at a loss for words. She knew he knew, and her denial was easier to see through than his. She bit her lip, not wanting to admit it, but feared holding it back any longer.

"No, Jane. I'm _in_ love with you. There's a difference. I'm not your sister or your friend or your partner. I love you so, so differently than I should but you just…you just," this time she bit her lip to hold back the tears.

"Hey," he tilted her chin up gently. Her green eyes were bright but muddied by the redness. "C'mon, look at me Teresa. Do I look like I'm afraid? Do I look like I'm running? I know you don't trust me, or what I say I've see tonight. You couldn't, not after what I've put you through. When I said I didn't remember, you knew I lied, but you let it go. Why?"

Her smile was grim. "If you love something…set it free."

"If it comes back, it's yours…I came back. I came back for _you_. I told you I'd always save you. You've kept me…whole. I couldn't imagine leaving you again, I couldn't think about sacrificing you, I…I love you, Teresa."

Her gasp brought on a new slew of tears. She buried her face in his neck, clutching him like a lifeline. Like his grip on her.

"I think I'd very much like to kiss you," came his tentative voice in her ear. Her laugh was strangled, but she gently moved back to look at his face, judge his seriousness. All she could see was her own feelings reflected back. She stroked his cheek, catching her thumb on shadow, catching gold curls in her fingertips. Her nod was almost impossible to see.

But he could see the things that no one else could.

They put a decade of lost time and need and unrequited love into that kiss.

The kiss that would ultimately change their futures.

XOX

It was many years later when he received his justice. Or maybe it was all of theirs, this justice.

He'd passed the case onto others. He'd tossed his wedding ring into the ocean with a bouquet of flowers the day the news came. It didn't suit him, wearing it on his right hand anyway.

He'd let them go long ago. Let them have their peace. And he had his.

No one on the team lost their lives to the maniacal serial killer. Red John had been gunned down by the husband of his attempted victim.

Teresa was the one to tell him, and he was relieved. He'd smiled, nodded, and asked her plainly what she wanted for dinner.

Red John was never spoken of in their home again. The home he'd seen in the future was theirs. The letter hung above the fireplace.

But there were no memorial cards with his face, or anyone else's.

There were pictures of their daughter though. The blue-eyed, dark haired, beauty as precocious as he and as tolerant as she. Pictures of Ben and his half sister, Claire, adorned the mantel as well, amongst the photos of their wedding and the wedding of Wayne and Grace.

Yes, he changed.

And _that_ was the reason he'd changed his future.

_Oh the streets you're walking on_

_A thousand houses long_

_Well that's where I belong_

_And you belong with me_

_Not swallowed in the sea_

_You belong with me_

_Not swallowed in the sea_

_Yeah, you belong with me_

_Not swallowed in the sea…_


End file.
